A thousand sceptres in their giant hands!—
And mountains loom majestical on high,
And lift their foreheads in the blank of sky,
Bathed in its brightness, while their robes of snow
Trail o’er the tallest pines, and far below,
Poured from their urns, the streams divide the plain
And bear their tributes to the sounding main.
And the round hills and verdant solitudes
That slumber in the heart of trackless woods;
The broad champain, the hollow vale and mead,